


O: October

by brokxnharry



Series: Teen Wolf A-Z Challenge (with songs) [15]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Derek Leaves Beacon Hills, FBI Intern Stiles Stilinski, Future Fic, M/M, Mentioned Lydia Martin, Minor Cora Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Post-Season/Series 04 Finale, Sad Stiles Stilinski, Scott is a Good Friend, Season 6A spoilers, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, Sick Stiles Stilinski, and leaves them all behind, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokxnharry/pseuds/brokxnharry
Summary: " So, I was hit by a car, and Derek was driving the car, Scott. He- he was there. He's here, and, I- I don't know what to do with myself."





	O: October

**Author's Note:**

> Song: Open your eyes - Andrew Belle

It was well into October in Quantico. Roads were layered in melting white, rain falling from the sky, turning to snow, right before it hit the ground. People were running back into the safety of their homes, or their places of work, if they were opened at the time. Stiles was walking out of his favorite diner, where his roommate worked part-time, a cup of tea with honey in hand, trying to resist the cold flooding his body. Most people had flown back home for Thanksgiving, or they were hibernating in their dorm rooms, trying to get their assignments done before the following deadlines. But Stiles chose to stay there for the holidays, although, he was almost done with the essays he had to give in, and the cases he had to read through.

He called the sheriff two days before he was supposed to go home, telling him something about non-affordable plane tickets, and work he had to finish while on campus. The sheriff sounded disappointed, falling silent for a moment or so, letting Stiles' conscious torture him with possibilities, with theories of what it would do to his father, how fiercely his heart was breaking in his chest, because his son didn't care enough to go back to the place that had taken it all, had torn his soul, and left him in shreds, in remains.

He'd barely made it through graduation. In fact, he'd barely made it at all, with Theo and the chimeras and the Nazis controlling the ghost riders and the almost wiped out city that he didn't know why he ever bothered with, after it killed almost all those he'd ever cared for, drove away those who'd been anywhere near alive. If he was being fair, it was Mexico that had driven the last of them away. But still, they were there because of Kate, who was originally an Argent, born and raised in Beacon Hills. So it made sense. At least to him.

Stiles sniffled, burying his nose into the collar of his almost worn out jacket, blowing into his tea, and letting the vapor brush against his skin, a touch of warmth, of something sweet, against the bone chilling coldness that rarely went away. Because Beacon Hills was always warm, even the winters there, could barely be felt, when they were running away from something, or chasing after the other, when there were too many of them, that the cold couldn't really break through it, through whatever they had together, had with each other.

Stiles sighed, turning away from the sidewalk, to cross the street. There was the sound of a car breaking, or trying to, as it slid across the slippery road. Stiles barely managed to look up, to take in the glistening color of the car, before it hit into his knees, folding him in half, his upper body collapsing onto the car. It halted, and he fell away, the snow breaking his crash. He stayed there, suddenly disconnected from his surroundings, watching as the moon moved behind a grey cloud, the stars shifting, floating away so easily, he wondered why it was always so hard for him to leave, when it seemed to be so easy, almost too fucking easy, for everyone else. He felt the spilled tea coloring the snow in a watered down shade of red, that was kind of pink, a hint of yellow in there too. He felt the burning hot liquid, seeping through all his layers of clothes. He felt his fingers twitching, his legs releasing from the sharp angle they'd fallen into. And then, he was thrown back into it, into the hands grasping at his arms, standing him up, the burning sensation against his skin, and how his clothes were sticking to him, feeling tight, and icky, and claustrophobic in a way.

" Are you in any pain? Do you want us to call someone for you?" A voice said from somewhere beside him. He looked down, and yeah, everything was relatively how it was supposed to be. His bones weren't sticking out, there was no blood dissolving into everything else coating his skin. So he shook his head, moving his eyes away from the tremble in his figure, and how these strangers' arms were holding him together.

Then, there was a car door opening, an achingly familiar face molding into the cold night, a frown formed between eyebrows, eyes bright, even when everything else was darkening around the edges. There was a ringing in Stiles' ears, that sounded like a goodbye, like a promise of being okay, of staying, and waiting. Stiles thought he heard that promise, breaking. It could have been his heart too. He couldn't really tell.

" Stiles,"

" Shit. Shit, shit, shit, **_fuck_**. Oh my God. Fuck." He felt the fingers around his arm tightening, heard someone telling him to calm down, asking him if he was okay, but he wasn't. Because Derek was there. Right fucking there. And it'd been years of Stiles searching for him, knowing that he didn't want to be found, didn't care about what he left behind, but Stiles did. How could Derek not know that? How could he disregard it so easily, shove it away like it didn't count? Like Stiles-

" I need to get out of here." He turned away, losing his footing, his breath, but someone held him up, as he pushed through the dispersing crowd, wanting to run, to get away from the bombarding sense of worthlessness, of unrequited feelings that just didn't matter.

" Stiles, wait. Did you get hurt? Slow down, are you okay?" There was a hand on his arm, that was tender, kind. And he almost pushed against it, almost pushed it away, but then, there was a sound of someone else that wasn't Derek, but spoke his name in a way that broke something in Stiles' chest, because he hadn't been able to say that name out loud for so long now, because of the things shattering inside him, and how it always felt like he was dying a little.

" You okay? I moved the car from the middle of the street, do you want me to wait in it, or should I just.." Stiles stilled, his eyes tilting enough to catch some naturally curly black hair, and skin that was almost too soft. There was a smile on Derek's face, weary and tired, but- Derek had never smiled at him like that. Had never been able to muster up a smile that was merely for reassurance. Had never cared enough to be polite. Stiles wondered if he had to have been so rough, so cold, because Beacon Hills was ruthless, unkind to its people, and it had done that to him. Had forced him into being that, into treating people like they weren't people, like they were nothing; a speck of dust in his world.

" Stiles," Derek sighed, something like sadness in his eyes, like worry, and fuck, why did Stiles suddenly want to cry?

" I need to get back to the dorms before the curfew." Stiles pulled his arm away from Derek's grasp, feeling every single one of his fingers let go.

" Dorms? You go to college here?" Stiles didn't want to tell him about how life felt like it stopped after he came back to a pool of blood on the deserted ground, and tracks of a car driving away. So, he didn't say anything at all, nodding, with his eyes cowering away from all things Derek.

" Good. That's, that's great, Stiles. I, uh, I'm here for-"

" I don't want to know. Doesn't matter. I gotta go, sorry about your car." Stiles shrugged, moving away, careful to plant his feet into the ground with every step, not wanting to trip, to stagger, or fall. At least not yet. Not with his apology still looming somewhere in the air around him, the way he'd apologized for his mother's death, and fighting too hard when Donovan was coming for him, and how Scott's father didn't even call when he turned 16.

He got to his room, and his phone was vibrating in his pocket, but things were still shaky, so he couldn't really tell it apart, until his ringtone broke through the daze he found himself in, and he put the phone to his ear, without really thinking it through.

" I thought we were supposed to Skype tonight, you're not still procrastinating your assignments, are you?" Scott's voice eased something between his shoulders, released something that was clenched in his muscles, as Stiles fell into his bed, or a chair that was close enough to it, feeling tired down to his bones.

" Scott, yeah, no, I'm mostly done with those, but," Stiles choked, losing his breath all over again.

" Hey, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

" You will never believe what happened tonight." Stiles chuckled, because honestly, what even was his life?

" You got laid? Because **_that_** I truly will never believe." Stiles rolled his eyes, taking off his wet jacket, turning on the heaters because maybe that would help with the shiver. It was worth a shot.

" So, I was hit by a car, and-"

" Wait, what? Holy shit, Stiles, did you get hurt? Did you get their plate number?"

" It was snowing, so that helped. I'm achy and sore, but I'm fine. I- I'm okay."

" Then why do you sound like you aren’t?" Stiles thought he heard his friend's knowing smile, patience filling the beats of silence. And Stiles tried to steady his voice, to tame his heart that was roaring, howling into the uncaring night.

" Derek was driving the car, Scott. He- he was there. He's **_here_** , and, I- I don't know what to do with myself."

" Derek is there? In Quantico?"

" Yeah."

" And he was driving down the same street you were on, at the exact same time, and he hit you, with his car?"

" Yes, Scott." Stiles groaned, removing the shirt sticking to his chest, cursing his luck for choosing honey to go with his tea tonight.

" This feels like it's well beyond my area of expertise. Like, dude. It's been years. I mean, I barely remember what happened last, before he, you know, disappeared." Stiles nodded, thinking of how he'd never told Scott what had happened. Had never spoken to anyone about how it had made him feel. How obsolete he'd felt, every time he'd gone by the loft, to find his own clothes, scattered around, like he'd been living there too, like Derek had forgotten to take him along, the way he'd forgotten some of his books, or his kettle.

" It doesn't matter anyway. I'm just, I'll just stay in the dorms till the holidays are over, and then, lectures will take up all my time, until, you know, he leaves town or something. I don't know. Just, why did Cora never tell me? I called her, every day, for a year after he left, and she- God. Am I crazy to still be thinking about this?" _About him_ , Stiles wanted to say, but it lumped in his throat, blocking the air he was about to use, to get it out.

" You're not crazy, Stiles. You're just how you always are; loyal and forgetful when it comes to the shit people do to you. But, I mean, do you want to talk to him? Like find out why he left, or why he never reached out? Or, maybe, if he is ever coming back?"

" It feels like it's a bit too late for all that, Scott. What difference would it make? He left. And we had to live with it. So. No reasoning will really make it okay, you know." Stiles had his fingers through his hair, pushing away the melting specks of snow, pulling at the roots to ground himself, to cling to something that would cease the trembling.

" Yeah. I guess you're right. But I think, it's mostly you, who isn't okay with it. Hasn't really been, since Mexico." Stiles' breath hitched, crawling back down his throat, like it no longer wanted to come out, like his lungs were no longer willing to let it go. Scott must have heard it, must have sensed something losing its balance, because he backtracked.

" But you're probably right. You should just forget about it, and move on with your life. You have something for yourself now, and you should focus on that instead." Stiles knew that Scott was right. But he couldn't. He couldn't move on with the life that didn't feel like a life, but a failed attempt at one. He didn't feel like himself. This life didn't feel like it was his. And he didn't know, when he'd written Derek's name across everything that had ever made him a person.

" Yeah. I should." Stiles said instead, ignoring the weary silence between them, before Scott told him to go to sleep, and call him tomorrow if he was up for that Skype call. Stiles knew he probably wouldn't be. He fell asleep without really planning to, waking up a few hours later, when his roommate came back from his shift at the diner. He went to take a shower then, hating how things were sticking to him, and how moist he felt. God he hated that word. **_Moist_**. He called his dad on his way back to his room, keeping his company through his night shift, and straying away from all things related to Beacon Hills and what had left it, along with a few other things, behind. His dad didn't push anything, was slowly easing back into acceptance of what his son chose to do with his time, and what he still wasn't quite ready to face.

He was too restless to go back to sleep, so he went to train for a few hours, letting his roommate sleep. His physique had gotten a lot better. He'd gotten a few protruding muscles now, had broadened around the chest area, becoming more firm, a bit harder to break through, or bite into, or intimidate really. His mind went where he was holding up a body a lot heavier than his own, to keep it from drowning, and hands grasping his head and hitting it into a steering wheel, and a bat breaking into an Alpha's back, because it was all there was to Stiles. His only point of strength. He couldn't help but think that he'd do a lot better in Beacon Hills now that he'd grown into his body. If he'd ever decided to go back of course. Which, he highly doubted.

He took another shower, before heading back to his room, exhausted, and sore, after the water had washed all his sweat away, leaving him with purple bruises on his back, and thighs, after his body had stayed bruise-free for quite some time. As soon as something related to Beacon Hills re-entered his life, he was left with aching prints of it on his skin, a resurfacing grip on his heart. But it'd go away again. He'd move on.

" It's too early to be this awake, Stiles, fuck off." His roommate; Thomas, said, as he collected the clothes from the night before, to launder. Stiles shook his head, chuckling to himself, before patting his friend's shoulder.

" Did that guy ever find you?" Thomas mumbled into his pillow, and Stiles stopped. Didn't turn. Didn't have it in him to move at all.

" Wh- what guy?"

" I don't know, some dude came into the diner, described you, said your name, and asked if I knew where you studied. So I told him." Thomas shrugged, just as Stiles' groan filled the air.

" Fucking hell, Thomas." Of course moving on wouldn't be a possibility. Of course something like this would happen. Why had he ever thought things would go his way? Why had he thought it would be this easy?

" What? He had your cup of tea in hand, and seemed to know you well enough. Besides, it's not like I gave him your home address or something."

" That's because you don't **_know_** my home address."

" Yeah, well. The point is, I wouldn't have given it to him, even if I had known it." Thomas was well into his way back to sleep, when Stiles shoved one of his pillows at him, barely dodging his complaints, as he grabbed his phone, and the bag of clothes, and walked out of the room. He didn't really want to be in the FBI anyway. Maybe he could just pack up and run away. Go to Miami or Hawaii or somewhere with water and no werewolves. No snow or stupid Camaros or girls with pretty hair talking to werewolves like they'd been friends for ages.

Stiles threw his clothes into one of the washing machines, hissing under his breath about his luck and his life and his stupid racing heart. He thought of calling Derek in. He was certain he could prove him to be a criminal of some sorts. He did murder a few dozen people, and he did hit him with his car the night before. He could for sure get him for stalking, if nothing else. But then, Stiles was somewhere in the hallway, and Derek was walking up the stairs, looking around like he was searching for something. Searching for him. And then his eyes fell on him, sparkling in green and blue and a bit of hazel and Stiles wanted the ground to crack open beneath him and swallow him whole. Or at least, give Derek a distraction until he was on his way to Mexico. Or not Mexico, because **_fuck_** Mexico. Just somewhere else.

" Stiles, I-" Stiles pushed into him, walked past him, reforming all that was storming inside him, into rage.

" Stiles, **_stop_**. I just wanted to check up on you." Derek was walking beside him, jogging to keep up with his pace, and Stiles wanted to outrun him, just to prove that he could.

" Yeah, well, you did. Goodbye, now."

" I'm trying to talk to you here, come on, just have some coffee with me, or-"

" Talk? You want to **_talk_** , Derek? Since when, huh? When have you figured out how to use words? And why the fuck do you think you can use them with **_me_**? You don't know me. You don't care. We don't owe each other anything. So move along now, and let me get back to my assignments, or so help me, I-"

" You'll what, Stiles? What exactly, are you going to do, if I don't move along?" Derek's chest was brushing against Stiles' and he hated how fiercely his heart was beating against his ribcage, like it longed for the proximity, craved the closeness it'd been deprived of. Stiles looked between Derek's eyes, radiating with challenge, with fury, with well-hidden pain.

" Fuck that, and fuck you." Stiles shoved Derek again, and this time, Derek didn't follow. Didn't try to hold onto him. Didn't try to pull him back. Although, Stiles felt like he would have let him this time. He probably would have given in. But Derek always beat him to that.

" I tried to come back, Stiles. I came so close, so many times. But you know what that town did to me. What it took from me. I couldn't let myself feel like that again. Couldn't bear much more of it." Stiles halted somewhere in the middle of the empty hallway, thankful that people were either working on their assignments, or somewhere around the world, with their families. His chest was heaving, cracking open, unfolding, and leaking things that were meant to be buried deep within. Kept somewhere far, far away.

" I called you, so many times, Derek. I called Cora, and Peter, and, Chris. I called everyone who could have known where you'd run off to, could have- could have told you to come back, to just, reach out, and **_tell_** me. Just tell me that you were okay. That you were alive, and not- not still bleeding out alone somewhere." Derek's legs were moving, taking hesitant steps to tear through the distance between him and Stiles. His hands trembled with an itch to latch onto Stiles and never let go again.

" I know. I know I should have said something, should have called, but. I thought I was of no use to any of you. Thought time would pass, and it wouldn't matter anymore, and it will all just be this, distant memory, that you speak of when you're drunk and nostalgic. But other than that, it'll feel like it hadn't been there at all." Stiles turned towards Derek, eyes flooded with disbelief, bewilderment, mouth opening and closing, every time he tried to find something to say, losing his voice and his words and his will to get anything out that wasn't screams or cries or something between rage and utter heartbreak.

" You- you don't get to do that. Don't get to pull that card, every time you fuck something up. I don't care how little you think you mattered, Derek. You mattered. You fucking mattered, and, I'm so **_tired_** of trying to prove that to you. So sick, of having my feelings, mean nothing, count for nothing. You left us. And there was nothing that we could say or do to make you stay. This isn't about us not caring. This is about you. It has always been about you, Derek." Derek's eyes flashed with something like guilt, like shame, but Stiles put his arms in the air, in a sense of goodbye, or a declaration of surrender, Derek couldn't really tell, because his arms fell, and so did his face, before he walked into his room, closing the door so quietly, so carefully, it almost felt like he was letting Derek in.

Derek heard someone groaning about too much noise, heard Stiles' breathless apology, and wondered if the stench of regret was Stiles' or his own.

Stiles spent the following three days in his room. He didn't leave, unless he was called in for a training session, or to submit one of his assignments. He called his dad less times than he normally would and blamed it on the Thanks Giving parties that he hadn't bothered with. He talked to Scott on Skype once, and disregarded all words that sounded like a name that he didn't want to think about. He even talked to Mason, who sometimes struggled with his wingman duties, and needed help with drawing lines between the worlds collapsing around him. Stiles liked acting like he had his shit together, like he had any idea at all, of how to handle things that still haunted him, still clawed at his lungs and left him slightly breathless, shaky almost everywhere.

It took Thomas a week, until he stopped asking about Derek, or why his hands were trembling around Stiles' tea cup, after a particularly unpleasant argument with Stiles where he yelled things out, about leaving and cowardness and how he sometimes wanted to set himself on fire and see if the smell would draw him in, would crack him open enough for Stiles to squeeze himself in and maybe stay, this time. Two days after that, Stiles walked into the diner where Thomas worked, ordering things for two, and whispering an apology around his tasteless coffee. Thomas smiled, nodded, taking the coffee away from Stiles, saying something about putting in salt instead of sugar because he was kind of petty sometimes, and Stiles just laughed, promising a grueling review, that he would never really give.

" Here's your new coffee, with a special alcoholic addition."

" Why would you do that? I have to do more research in the morning, Thomas."

" Trust me, you're gonna need it." Thomas chuckled, patting Stiles' shoulder, before disappearing into the kitchen. Stiles' eyebrows furrowed, leaning over the counter and trying to see what kind of alcohol Thomas had used, when a chair screeched beside him, warmth radiating through the unreasonably cold air.

Stiles' heart gave a remarkably desperate thud against his ribcage, his eyes moved away from the counter, to Derek, who was now sitting beside him, looking hopeful, despite the solemnness between his eyes, the hesitancy in the smile he couldn't quite give. Stiles fell back into his chair, looking away, feeling the need to elope, crashing into everything good he felt when Derek was around, and dammit, he was too tired to fight him. At least this once. So, he sat there, sipping at his coffee, the overwhelming taste of alcohol giving him an immediate buzz.

" Did you get hurt? The other night, I mean?" Derek's voice was uncharacteristically uncertain, and Stiles wondered if he even knew that man at all.

" That's what you want to ask about? All this time, and **_that's_** what you choose to talk about first?" Stiles turned in his seat, taking the few grey hairs in Derek's growing beard, and how there were wrinkles by his eyes, that made them look less sad, less intense. Derek swallowed, opening his mouth and letting all the words he couldn't say cling to the tip of his tongue, before crawling back down his throat, hiding behind all the things he kept in there.

" I'm trying here, Stiles."

" Trying to do what, exactly? What do you want from all of this? From **_me_**?" Derek's eyebrows furrowed, drowning Stiles in familiarity, in a sense of knowing. He thought of invasive questions and violent threats that he thought were empty but still feared anyway. And he wondered how it still felt the same, even after all this time.

" I don't want anything from you. I just, don't want this between us. I don't want you to think that, that it was easy, or that it didn't matter to me, because," Derek halted, sighed, closing his eyes upon something he wasn't quite ready to let out, to let go of.

" There's nothing between us, Derek. Not this, not anything else. We both know how this goes. We know how this was always supposed to end. You were right. It's all just memories now, that don't feel like anything, don't even feel like **_us_** , sometimes. You were just passing through, I get it, I do, but maybe I shouldn't be a stop for you anymore. Maybe you should just, keep moving, keep driving, because those fleeting moments of who we used to be, of how- how I remember you to be, that's not there anymore. And I don't know you the way you are now, Derek. You don't really know me either. So this whole thing just, doesn't make any sense, really. Isn't worth it." Stiles pointed somewhere between the two of them, but his hands lingered when they felt Derek's heartbeat echoing through the air, vibrating with fear, with a renewed sense of loss. Stiles shook his head, standing, taking a few bills from his pocket, and leaving them beneath his now empty cup.

" I guess, this is how it would have felt like, if I'd ever gotten the chance to say goodbye." Stiles smiled, and it was wet and bitter and so fucking sad, Derek almost crumbled. But Stiles moved away from him, like he couldn't bear to brush against him, to feel how different his touch now was, how soft his skin had gotten, without the consistent tearing and the need to remain rough and unwavering. Derek watched him walk out the door, heard the bell, waving him off, and he swore there was something snapping inside him, coming undone, falling to its knees and begging for forgiveness, kind of like him, except it was a little less graceful with it, a little more giving.

Stiles took his phone into his trembling hands, breathing out a white cloud of choked air that almost spelled out Derek's name, as he dialed his father's number, wanting to hear his voice, hear anything other than the quiet of Derek never following behind, never fucking saying what he meant. It rang for a bit too long, and Stiles almost changed his mind, almost threw his phone away in fury, but then his father was laughing through his ears, and he almost started crying with the ache of missing him.

" Hey, dad," Stiles breathed out, biting down on his lips, to cling to his collectiveness.

" Stiles, how are you, kiddo? I hear it's getting crazy cold over there." Stiles heard Scott's voice in the background, commenting on his mother's cooking, and Stiles wished he was there, because he hated Beacon Hills, but he loved those people, and he wished he could be there for them, without having to be in that place.

" It's pretty intense, yeah. My body is just not meant to last in single-digits weather, I wasn't built for it." The Sheriff chuckled, sounding all free and loose and genuinely happy. Stiles smiled to himself too, because he could almost see it now, could picture it perfectly.

" Yeah, well, FBI officers are supposed to survive in the most drastic circumstances, so you better suck it up, unless you want to come work for me for the rest of your life." There was still a layer of hope hiding beneath the humor in his dad's voice.

" Yeah, I think I'm going to pass, dad. In fact, I'd rather freeze out here, than work under your authority. No offense, old man, you'll just drive me nuts to be honest, and I'd rather keep our relationship without either of us having to like, shoot at the other or something."

" Because working with you is a walk in the park, huh, Stiles? Tell me again, how many of your Professors requested to drop the courses that you take?"

" It's called request for a reason. Because they end up getting denied anyway." The sheriff snorted, puffing out a humorous chuckle.

" I miss you, kid." Something dimmed in the sheriff's voice and Stiles wanted to take it all back. Every last bit of it.

" I, I miss you too, dad. I kind of wish you were here right now, or, I was there, I don't know. I just miss you, all of you."

" You okay, though, right? There's something in your voice, I don't know." Stiles' breathing faltered, staggered, as he squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to freak his dad out any further.

" Y- yeah. I'm fine. Like I said, just, really miss you."

" I love you, son. And as proud as I am of you, doing this for yourself, I wouldn't mind you coming home. So if you need to drop everything, and come back, do just that. You won't be letting anybody down. Hell, you will be making one old man, a lot less worried, less lonely, too."

" I'll keep that in mind. Although, you can't be **_that_** lonely, with Scott and Melissa over there. If anything, I'm the one stuck out here without her killer cooking. You should be feeling sorry for me."

" Oh, I am. I'm devastated." The sheriff laughed again, humming in contentment, before he seemed to be giving the phone away, arguing with Scott about eating too much, finishing the food before he got his share.

" Stiles, hey, man," Scott's cheerful voice replaced his father's, the sound of him licking his fingers evident, and Stiles found himself missing that too. Missing all of it.

" Hey, Scott. Thanks for keeping my dad's company. He doesn't like being alone, and this, makes me feel better about staying out here."

" Of course, Stiles, what the hell? We're family, man, we'd never leave him by himself for too long. Plus, you know how mum always cooks in large portions, so it's not like we'd rather throw that food away." Stiles laughed, a bit breathlessly, a bit tiredly, as he saw his building getting closer.

" Maybe you should just ship some of that food over here, Quantico is quite low on wastes."

" Always thinking of the environment, Stiles, wow."

" Of course, dude, I care about the world and whatnot." Scott laughed, sounding like he was closing a door behind him, dropping into a bed or a chair, or something.

" Alright, so, what's up?"

" What do you mean?"

" I mean, you don't call your dad out of nowhere, unless you need to hear his voice to calm you down, or distract you, or something. So, what happened? Is it Derek again?"

" We talked. I guess, we can call it that."

" Elaborate maybe?"

" Nothing really happened. He tried to make it better, explain why he did what he did. But, it's pointless now anyway. It didn't help with anything, didn't feel like I wanted it to. I'm almost back to my room now, and I have tons of research to get through tomorrow, so, it's all good. Just gotta keep going, you know."

" I mean, yeah, if that's what feels right to you." Scott was always so accepting, so welcoming, so supportive of it all, and Stiles sometimes struggled to think of the time when he wasn't, when it'd almost tore them apart.

" What would you have done?"

" I- I think I would have been hesitant, at first, would have had trouble trusting him like I used to, but it's different for me. I wasn't in love with the man."

" What?"

" Stiles," Scott laughed, seeming to be moving around again, before he settled, " I know I'm not book-smart, but I've been in love before. I know how that looks, how it feels, when you- you lose someone. I'm also a werewolf, and I happened to smell it on you. So your disappointment, your heartbreak, it's justifiable, man. It makes sense. And how you deal with it, how you choose to go about this, there's no right or wrong way. I just don't want you to get hurt again, don't want him to drive you further away from us, that's all I care about, really." Stiles moved the phone away from his ears, putting his face somewhere between his elbow and his palm, crying and wiping and crying again.

" Thanks, Scott. I- uh, I'll call you later, okay?" Scott sighed, hearing the quiver in Stiles' voice.

" Any time you feel like it, man, I'm here."

" Yeah. Tell Melissa I said hi. Take care of dad, too." Scott made him promise to do something similar, before hanging up. Stiles pushed into his room, changing out of his clothes, drinking some water to ease his hangover the next day, before he fell into his bed, and willed all the shades of green and hazel away from his dreams.

The next day, he woke up with barely any signs of a hangover, but a fully enforced cold was roaming through his body, as he pushed himself into the shower to break the fever he could feel draining him, before going to the library to do the planned research. He had to keep moving, keep going, until he could no longer feel arms chaining him, or eyes weighing him down, or the itch for more, for something else.

He had to lean against the walls to get to his room that night, Thomas was going out for another shift, and he offered to stay back and take care of him, to get him a nurse, or at least some cold medication, but Stiles shook his head, collapsing into his bed, shivering, regardless of how many blankets Thomas tried to lay over him. His immune system always shut down, when things inside him started to overflow, to break through the cracks of his being. And boy, were things breaking.

 

" Stiles, how are you now? Feeling better?" Thomas' voice sounded distant, like Stiles was going under, and his voice was barely pushing through the surface. Stiles swallowed the dryness in his mouth away, wincing at the needles poking at his throat, like there was something he was meant to say, that he didn't. He nodded, pulling the blanket between his fingers further up, almost wanting it to envelop him completely, swallow him whole.

" I submitted the assignment for you, by the way. Did your dad's Stilinkis' magic cure work?" Thomas leaned down, brushing his fingers through Stiles' hair despite the dampness, trying to tell if his fever broke. It didn't.

" It tasted like shit. Didn't help with the nausea. Don't want to be a Stilinski anymore." Stiles puffed out, like he was trying to laugh. Thomas did laugh, sitting on the edge of his own bed, watching the delirious Stiles.

" Uh, buddy, we have some company." Stiles' eyes faltered, like he was trying to blink them open, but they were so heavy, and he was still feeling, disconnected, like his body was in pieces. Maybe it was.

" If it's more pot, take it somewhere else, or I will call it in myself. I can barely breathe." Stiles sniffled, frowning upon the lack of air going through his nose, as he opened his mouth and tried to breathe, sounding ragged and weak and clustered.

" Not pot, no. Someone is here to see you, whenever you're ready."

" Tired, Thomas. So tired." Stiles choked out, burying his face into his pillow, like he was forcing himself back to sleep. He felt fingers running through his hair again, another hand somewhere on his back, easing the ache from his strained bones.

" Get him an ice-pack, if you have one. Maybe some cold water and towels. He's burning up." Stiles coughed out so aggressively, he felt it scratch his throat further. He almost gagged, almost threw up the soup he hadn't eaten, that Thomas had gotten for him during his previous shift, but the hands around him were so steady, so comforting, and despite how achy his body was, how he felt heat and cold colliding into one another somewhere by his core, he sighed out, sinking further into himself and the blankets and the hands and his favorite pillows.

The hands moved away momentarily, as he felt something cold against his sweaty back, brushing against the bruise he saw there, during his last training session, when he realized that doing pull-ups with an already injured back, probably wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. There was a wetness against his cracked lips, and he licked them, craving something to calm his thirst. He shuddered, his teeth colliding into one another, causing the headache at the back of his skull to flare, to spread.

" Here, Stiles, have some water." His head was lifted, and he wondered how anyone managed to do that, with all the weight and the pressure settling around it. He swallowed when he was told to, coughing out when the air took too long to course through him, before he was settled back down, with a towel across his forehead.

" I've never seen him like this, it's so weird." There was a voice floating around the room, but it wasn't threatening, wasn't unkind, so he let it.

" Yeah, he doesn't get sick much, I don't think. And when he does, he rarely admits to it. Never asks for help, barely accepts it when offered. Serious ego on that guy." Stiles smiled, his heart identifying with the sound waves of the familiar voice, that he thought he was dreaming.

" So.. what, like, what happened there? Were you guys, like, a thing?"

" We should have been. I thought we would be."

" And he didn't?"

" I don't really know. I never could tell with him. He was just kind to everybody, cared for everyone, always tried to help. Everyone knew him and fell in love with him, and it was just, so easy, you know. So I thought, maybe it's just in his nature, to be there, to do everything he can to help. Maybe it's just who he is. I don't even know why I'm telling you this, because I was never like that. Was never anything like him. But, when, uh, after everything, I got a bit better. Found bits of myself. And I don't know how to tell him how much it terrifies me, to think of losing that. Of being that, that person again."

" He never really speaks of his past, or his background. I didn't even know about you, until that night, when you asked me about him at the diner. But, the first week we were roommates, we didn't talk at all. I didn't know how to not be socially awkward, and he was so, distracted, all the time, so distant, so I let him be, until one day, I was almost mugged, two blocks away from the diner, and I still don't know where he came from, but he tackled one of the guys to the ground, and yelled about the FBI and how we would track them down, and he didn't even have a weapon on him or anything. Like, we could have **_died_**. He could have died, to save someone he barely acknowledged before. And from that point on, I just listened when he had something to tell, and he did the same for me, always."

" Yeah. That sounds like him."

" I don't know if it matters, but, I don't think you're like everyone else to him. I might not know all that much about the people in his life, but I saw him that day at the diner, when you showed up. I saw him after your talk in the hallway. And I don't think he'd let just anyone do this to him. I'm not sure I like it, or **_you_** , to be fair, but I hate seeing him so.. unlike himself. So loudly unhappy. And if you can help with that, then I think you should."

There was something in the air, coating the heavy silence, threading through it, poking at what was left unsaid. And if Stiles was awake at all, if he could stop floating and ground himself to the voices he heard, he probably would have cried. Probably could have begged them to never leave again, to never quiet down.

 

It took Stiles another 8 hours, of slipping in and out of blurry consciousness, trying to grasp at anything to anchor him, to keep him in one of those worlds, and stop it from slipping past him. He blinked away the exhaustion keeping his eyelids together, groaning at the sunlight piercing through the darkness he'd held on to for almost two full days now. There was a shadow by the window, a bed left unmade, towels and bowls of water and melted ice-packs scattered on his nightstand, as Stiles heaved in a breath that smelled of something sour, but was easier than most.

He tried to sit up, fall back into his body, and will it to move, but there was barely any energy left in him, and he was running on fluids that had managed to dodge his nausea. The shadow by the window turned, eyes so bright, he was almost blinded, features weary, worn down and worn out, as arms unfolded, twitching next to legs that took three steps towards him, and stopped.

" How- are you feeling better? Do you need anything?" Derek spoke, sounding absolutely wrecked, and Stiles wondered if he'd sound the same.

" What are you doing here?" Yeah. Stiles sounded just as wrecked, his voice held back by his burning throat, and how unused everything had been for a while now.

" I, I came over yesterday, to, talk to you, but you weren't answering, and Thomas came home and found me there, and he let me in. I saw how sick you were, and I just.. stayed." Derek looked so sad, so innocent. Stiles couldn't help but think that it was the first time his sadness made him look younger, instead of aging him, the more he allowed himself to feel it.

" Stayed?" Stiles questioned, like it was the most bewildering concept in the world.

" I'm sorry. Thomas went to the Library to work on his article, and I- I can go, if you want me to. Do you want me to go, Stiles?" Stiles thought it was long overdue. Almost too late.

" I don't want to be mad at you anymore." Stiles sighed, wishing he could take all traces of fear away from Derek's eyes.

" No?" Derek's eyes filled with something, his lips forming into a smile that was probably the most joyous thing Stiles had ever seen. He pulled his arm out, Derek taking it, like he was always meant to.

" No. I think.. I think I get it. I did it too, without really meaning or deciding to, but I don't want to anymore. I don't want to leave the people I love. I don't want them to leave me either." Derek looked between Stiles' eyes, dropping onto Thomas' bed, feeling lightheaded, suddenly tired down to his bones.

" I won't. I won't leave, Stiles. I'm sorry. You know that, right? You know that I'd do anything, give anything, to be able to take it back, come to you with, with everything, and just, let you make me stay. Or at least, set me off, properly. I want to do this right, Stiles. I really, really do."

" Yeah. I know, Derek." Stiles nodded, disbelief dispersing away from his eyes, hiding behind all the waves of appreciation, of gratitude, crashing onto him, drowning him in blues the color of the corners of Derek's eyes, and his favorite shirt, that Stiles left back home, trying to leave Derek there too.

Derek spoke of all the cities he'd visited, all the people he'd seen, and his neighbor from down the hallway that lived with her wife –who happened to be the same girl Stiles saw with him the night of the accident-, after running away from her homophobic parents, and starting anew. He spoke of sending Cora occasional postcards and feeling like he had family again, like he had **_her_**. Stiles spoke of forgetful friends and being wiped out of the world, and how it'd broken his heart a little to give the Jeep to Scott, although, he knew he deserved it, and would care for it. He spoke of dating Lydia for a while, fooling around with her, until one night, he asked if she felt like they were friends drunk on the idea of being in love, and she told him that maybe their love was always meant to be that, couldn't evolve into anything else, mostly because he loved her, but was in love with someone else. So they went back to being friends after that. He spoke of Theo and how Malia almost always wanted to tear him in half. Stiles kind of didn't want to stop her sometimes. He spoke of bad things happening, but he spoke of surviving them, making it through, and Derek smelled the pride on him, the sense of accomplishment, as he drank up how his voice sounded, and wondered how he'd gone a single day, listening for anything else.  


End file.
